Monster or Villain
by sweetly-cruel
Summary: Short story. Remus Lupin contemplates love, life and his own self-worth. Somewhat dark fluff.


Disclaimer: they belong to JKR.

AN: I wasn't going to upload this fic, because I didn't think it was very good. Of course, after a few minutes I finally realised that I would never know whether it was it was good or bad if I didn't bother to show it to anyone. : ) So please review. (Smiles winsomely.)

I started writing this out of nowhere, and then about halfway through it became Remus/Lily. While I don't agree with the notion that Lily was a raving nympho who slept with each of the Marauders at least twice (I've read all sorts of fics, you know) there doesn't seem, to me at least, to be any evidence in the book disputing that Lupin had feelings for her.

I'm sorry about all the fluff. I get the impression that Lupin, being the class character that he is, is the sensitive, maudlin sort. The story probably sounds clichéd, I know, but the clichés didn't _feel_ like clichés when I wrote them down. I'm making no sense whatever, so I'll shut up now.

And thus ends one of the longest disclaimers in fan fiction history.

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He knows he is luckier than those who have never met her before. He has the supreme right of being her friend, a trusted confidante of hers. He is allowed to talk to her and smile at her and hug her, pulling her close and discreetly letting his hand caress her hair ever so softly.

And yet with this privilege comes raw, mocking talent. He gets just close enough to form a vivid picture of what life with her would be like, and is then unceremoniously yanked away from his fantasy world by the cruel hands of fate and harsh reality. He can hope and he can dream, but he will never be the one by her side.

Her silky skin may casually brush against his once in a while, tantalising and devastating him. He can spy her soft pink lips, knowing that she will never be his to touch or kiss. He can lose himself in the emerald-framed twilight of her eyes, knowing that she will never gaze back into his and tell him that she loves him. Were he weaker, he would go so far as to say that his soul is being destroyed, piece by piece.

He still denies to himself that he is in love with her. He maintains that it is frivolous infatuation, that he only wants her because he cannot have her, that he will one day look back and wonder how on Earth he could ever have tortured himself so ridiculously over her. And yet underneath the layers of pretence and denial, he knows that if he did not love he would not ache like this. She would not be the first thing he thought of when he woke in the morning and the last at night. He would not prize her happiness above all else.

He has no release. He cannot tell her how he feels about her; he cannot breathe a word to a soul. It must be kept an agonising, shameful secret. He feels confused, angry, even, about why he feels such guilt. His feelings are unintentional. Had he any choice, he would not think twice about dampening the embers of his desire. Why should he feel apologetic when _he's_ the only one who's suffering this way?

He does not cry for her, because he is not the sort of man that cries. He does not write poetry for her, because he is not that self-indulgent. He does not take his frustration out on his friends, because he knows that that would only serve to damage the friendships that he has craved for so long and treasures so deeply. His only outlets are the longing glances that he casts her way in the vain hope that she might, one day, coyly return them. Deep down, in the blackest part of his heart, he knows that she never will. To her, he will never be anything more than her quietly sensitive, quietly bookish, quietly thoughtful friend. But as long as he can dream, he _will_ dream. He will dream that there's a glimmer of hope, however faint, that she is capable of feeling something more for him.

He is not the only one to love her, of course. It seems inevitable that someone else will fall in love with her kind, open heart, her sweet, giving nature, her darkly insane sense of humour and her laugh like wind-chimes. The difference is that she loves James back. There is nothing wistful or pained about the way that they look at each other. There is no need for either of them to wish, to pine, to hurt. They have both found everything they need in one another.

She is endearingly innocent - naïve, people might call her - by nature. He finds it remarkable that, despite all that she has suffered, all the taunts and threats that have been hurled at her because of her blood, she still views the world in a strangely romantic light. She is only too aware of the sin and depravity of others and their lives, and yet she chooses to focus on the goodness. It is as though she genuinely believes that as long as James is there to look after her, and her to look after him, no harm will come to either of them. No lasting harm, at least, and no harm that means anything. She feels that any pain of hers will be alleviated by James's presence; she trusts that any wounds of hers will be healed by the knowledge that he will be there for her for as long as he can be.

She told him once that the day she marries James will be the happiest of her life. As he witnesses the day itself, he realises that she was not lying. He can see it in those eyes; she's laughing and crying with sheer euphoria inside. As they are surveyed by envious onlookers, they appear as though the Apocalypse itself could swallow them up and they would remain oblivious, continuing to revel in the beauty of what they share.

They are not the perfect couple. She is wildly irritated by his fixation on all things Quidditch, and James resents the way that she tries to maintain contact with her snobbish sister. They row over political affairs, over problems involving their respective families, even over happenings in television programmes. But they love each other, all the same. Isn't that all that matters?

He knows this to be a well-intended lie designed to comfort. 'When you love someone, isn't that all that matters?' Rubbish. Of course it isn't. There are other things to consider, no matter how badly you may wish for them to dissolve into nothingness so that that sweet phrase can ring true. Friendship. Loyalty. Self-respect. Basic human decency, though he has doubts as to whether or not he can feasibly describe himself as human, given what he is.

He would die for James. He wants him to be happy. He wants _her_ to be happy, apart from anything else. She and James were made for each other, so everyone says. It sounds trite, but he concedes that it's very probably true. James will protect and nurture her, he will do everything in his power to ensure that she embraces every ecstasy of life whilst remaining shielded from its corruption. He knows - oh, he knows - that there's a lot of evil residing in the world right now, and that she in particular is at risk. He continues to drum the doctrine into himself: _she will be safe and content with James, you should be thankful_. And yet he still has to face opposition from the less virtuous side of himself, which guiltily insists: _you would do better, you know you would, if you were given even the smallest chance_…

He patiently orders himself to stop being such an arrogant prat. What evidence has he that she would be safe with him? If anything, she would be placed in further jeopardy. He is dangerous, he is repulsive, he is barely human. He has resigned himself to the knowledge that he must never be allowed to grow too close to anybody, because he is a destructive presence. He lives a half-life, dreading the repercussions of a full moon to the point of obsession. He is made of nothing but neuroses, self-disgust and dull, hackneyed misery.

He would never want to drag anyone into such a wretched downward spiral.

Especially not her.

He loves that she is so happy-go-lucky, that she can locate the good in any situation, that she can smile through the tears. To take that away by distorting her into someone as downhearted as him would be a heinous crime. He would never want to annihilate her very essence, just as that werewolf annihilated his.

He may be a monster, but he refuses to become a villain.

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AN: Ugh, I'm depressed, now. I'm going to bed. I only have enough energy left to ask you to review : ).


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